


John's Sweet Sorrow

by slytherakin



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt, I like making other people cry, Implied Mystrade, John acting like he's crazy, John crying, Johnlock Angst, Johnlock Feels, Lestrade crying, Lots of feeeeeeeeeels, M/M, Mrs. Hudson crying, Re-edited, So much angst, Watch out for the feels, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 13:31:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherakin/pseuds/slytherakin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Three years since Sherlock’s death and everything still hurts. Three years and the pain was still unbearable – still raw and uncured. Three years and he was still waiting for that one miracle. Three years and still he was so alone.</p><p>Three years. Yes, John is alive but inside he is dead.</p><p>Three years and John still can't accept the reality of Sherlock's death."</p><p>The pain was too much.</p><p>Everyday of his life, he lived in sorrow and grieve.</p><p>And even Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Mycroft could not bare to watch John's pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John's Sweet Sorrow

**Author's Note:**

> When I'm depressed and alone this is what happens. I write an angst Johnlock fic and hurt myself even more. But, hey, I find it fun!
> 
> P.S. Could be dangerous.
> 
> Enjoy! :)
> 
>  
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN SHERLOCK AND ITS CHARACTERS. THEY BELONG TO MY DADDY MOFFAT.

* * *

 

**John's Sweet Sorrow**

_I’m back…_

_I’m home…_

_John, I love –_

 

“Sherlock!” John woke up to another nightmare again. Another bad dream. It was always like this ever since the _Fall_. It was a shock for everyone. Sherlock Holmes, the world’s one and only consulting detective, died of suicide.

It has been three years. Three years since Sherlock’s death and everything still hurts. Three years and the pain was still unbearable – still raw and uncured. Three years and he was still waiting for that one miracle. Three years and still he was so alone.

Three years. Yes, John is alive but inside he is dead.

People might have forgotten about it. They may have carried on with their lives. But John Watson was different. Their relationship wasn’t a secret to everyone. So, it wasn’t a surprise if the doctor caged himself in their flat and only went out for his therapy sessions on Wednesdays.

He choked a sob, glancing around the darkness of the room he and Sherlock had shared and looking like a pale ghost over this darkness. Sweat rolled over his cold skin but that doesn’t worry him.

He was shivering from the cold – not from the rainy weather itself but from the emptiness of his heart and of the silence that was surrounding him.

There were now tears in his eyes. He breathes in. He breathes out. Tries himself not to remember the last words Sherlock had told him.

_“John, this is my note. I’m doing this for you. I’m sorry.”_

John Watson was a strong man. He never cries. But this time he does for he still could not understand why. He pushes himself to sit up and pulls the blanket closer to his small frame. It still does smell like his Sherlock, he thinks.

Everything around him _still_ reminded him of Sherlock. The apartment. The living room. The kitchen. The couch. The teacups. The books. The bed. The pillows. The coat and the scarf in their closet. And even the violin and microscope that were left untouched.

He clenched his chest – the pain hurting so much that he can’t breathe well anymore.

He sobs harder when he remembers three things:

First, the time when Mycroft, Sherlock’s brother, had told him to move out of 221B and go on with his life without the consulting detective. Told him that Sherlock was really dead and that he has to accept it. Mycroft had slapped him the reality. But he was stubborn and yelled,

“You have no idea how Sherlock means to me, Mycroft! I will wait for him no matter how long it takes! If you and the others have moved on, then I haven’t yet! And I never will!”

Second was when Lestrade and Donovan had found him sleeping beside Sherlock’s grave.

“I dreamt of him. He was alive. He was with me, Lestrade. Sherlock was alive. He was smiling at me. He was saying something but I couldn’t understand him clearly,” he paused – looking up at Lestrade who was squatting in front of him. Surely, the inspector’s face showed pity. Donovan tried to look away at John’s painful picture – only in his pajamas, his feet bare and pale, his body now looked thin, his eyes showed nothing but loneliness.

“He was alive, Lestrade. He told me to come here. So I did.”

The inspector didn’t say anything but lifted his trembling figure and whispered, “All right, John. We believe you,” he smiled sadly at Donovan. “Now, let’s get you home, yeah?”

They were silent. The only words they heard in the car were, “Sherlock is coming home. He told me he’s coming home. He’s waiting for me there.” And John was smiling.

The third one was too much. Lestrade and Mycroft immediately came to Baker Street after Mrs. Hudson, crying, had called Mycroft.

The next thing they found was John sitting on the couch. It was like the same John Watson they knew when Sherlock was still alive. But…

John sitting on the couch, reading a newspaper and a full smile was painted on his pale face.

John sitting on the couch, reading a newspaper and a full smile was painted on his pale face and was talking to himself.

No. John sitting on the couch, reading a newspaper and a full smile was painted on his pale face and was talking to Sherlock.

“Here’s a good case, Sherlock,” John reads it out loud. “A nine year old girl found dead in the streets of Notting Hill…” he paused, then chuckles. “Stop being such an arse, Sherlock.” And continues, “Maybe we should give Lestrade a call…”

Mycroft and Lestrade both have the same look on their face – again, pity and sadness. They didn’t even hear Mrs. Hudson’s sobs while she left, murmuring, “I can’t do this.”

“Mycroft…” Lestrade turned to his partner’s face and was welcomed with an arm enclosed his shaking shoulders.

“Not a word, Greg. Let’s leave him be.” And left him, they did.

 

* * *

 

 

 _John_ …

The doctor jerks when he hears Sherlock’s voice. He is here again, visiting John. Sherlock is here with John. And John opens his teary eyes to his consulting detective sitting next beside him on the bed.

_Hush now, John. Do not waste those tears for me._

“But Sherlock I –”

Sherlock pressed his cold lips to John’s warm ones. _You’ll be fine, John. Go back to sleep. Everything will be alright. I will be here beside you. I will always be. Do you understand, John?_

The doctor nods slowly as he felt Sherlock’s cold fingers wiping his tears away.

_Tomorrow. Everything will be all right tomorrow. You don’t have to wait for me anymore. You know what to do. You are a soldier, John. You are a brave man._

John looked into Sherlock’s eyes once more before he found himself asleep in Sherlock’s arms.

_I believe in you, my doctor._

 

* * *

 

 

The sound of people screaming and shouting. Then the sound of an ambulance. Then the sirens of the police cars.

A man – in his mid-thirties with dark blonde hair, average height, wore a coat and inside was his pajamas – had jumped off from the rooftop of St Bartholomew's Hospital. 8:45 AM.

The Scotland Yard with Lestrade leading them immediately rushed off to the scene when the news came. And what he saw was the most devastating scene of his entire life.

John Watson, his friend and Sherlock’s doctor, was lying in his own pool of blood. He couldn’t move. He was in shock. John had killed himself. John. John jumped off on the same building where Sherlock did.

Lestrade tries not to hyperventilate in the scene where people could see him. He evens his breathing, reaches for his phone with shaking hands and dials Mycroft’s number.

“M-Mycroft…”

“Greg? What’s wrong?”

“J-John…”

“John? What’s with him, Greg? Greg, what happened?”

It was all too much for Lestrade. He couldn’t stop the ugly sob that came out of his mouth when a paramedic came to take his friend’s body. He can’t think clearly. He felt cold and numb all over. He needs Mycroft beside him right now.

“Greg? Greg, tell me you are all right!”

He just stood there, watched as they take John’s body inside the hospital. He hears Mycroft shouting his name over the phone again. He flinches. Lestrade never does that before. But the pain was too much right now. He already lost a friend and now he did again.

“M-Mycroft… It’s John… k-killed himself.”

There was silence on the other side.

“Jumped off St. Barts. Just what Sherlock did three years ago.”

Still silence.

“Mycroft?”

He hears a deep sigh and, “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

The call ended.

“Friend of yours, eh?” He did not even notice that someone was standing beside him. He looked at the old man. “It’s because you’re crying.”

Lestrade looked up at the rooftop, wiping the visible tears.

“The man. Y’know, he looked very happy before he jumped off. Had a loving smile on his face. He stood there for about a minute. He was talking to himself then opened his arms wide, closed his eyes, and… jumped. I think that man had already found peace in his heart. He is happy, where ever he is right now.”

Lestrade was now aware of the fact that he was sobbing. He chuckled between his tears.

Happy. Yes, he is.

John didn’t have to suffer anymore. He didn’t have to feel the pain in his heart anymore. For he is with Sherlock now. Sherlock will make all the hurt go away. Sherlock won’t make John cry.

They are united again – Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

 

 

 

_THE END_

**Author's Note:**

> If ever you read this again and noticed some changes - major or minor, it's because that I added some stuff and deleted some. But, anyways, I deeply apologize if ever I made you cry.
> 
> Kudos and comments are accepted! Thank you.


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